


A Domestic

by Lue4028



Series: Rites of Passage [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, Parentlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 21:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3544493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock fears his bachelor days may be over after Mary passes away and he and John are faced with raising a child themselves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Domestic

Sherlock and John are walking by the avenue gardens in Regent's park with an energetic little girl running around and in between their legs. John is preoccupied with his phone as something urgent has come up at his practice, so Sherlock is forced to look after the child, keeping close at her heels. That is more easily said than done, however, as the two-year-old is prone to unpredictable, sporadic bursts of movement and is constantly getting derailed and changing course as per her continuously changing whims. When she suddenly darts off toward the water fountain they are approaching, Sherlock has to grab her before she attempts to drown herself in the unfamiliar, pretty blue medium.

"John can't we just isolate it in a chamber until it grows old enough to take care of itself? This is an exorbitant waste of time," Sherlock complains, still holding the girl with distant, locked arms.

"No Sherlock we can’t," John informs him, not looking up from his gadget as he passes them on the trail.

"Why not? I mean, just look at it. It's helpless," Sherlock looks apathetically at the girl making a fuss in his hands, insisting that he let her down, "And a danger to itself."

John sighs and looks up from his phone. "Sherlock, I know you don't like it but we're stuck with it okay?" he replies tiredly.

The girl protests her detainment so ardently that Sherlock is invariably forced to let her down and she takes off, but not before Sherlock plants a foot down on the hem of her dress, causing her to she tumble into the manicured grass. "Why do we need to keep it now that its mother has passed?" Sherlock finally demands out of irritation.

"Because its father is still alive," John returns, even, level, refined tone of voice and just a touch darkness. Incidentally, Sherlock seems to have hit a nerve.

"I don't understand why you feel obligated to it,” Sherlock retorts, unfolding one of his crossed arms in a pithy, open-handed gesture, the toddler trapped beneath his foot. “There are numerous ways we could dispose of it John, legal ways.”

John sets his back against a tree and crosses one ankle over the other comfortably, folding his arms with the mobile sheathed under an elbow and giving Sherlock his undivided attention. The girl is endeavouring to bite Sherlock’s ankle, but with little success, seeing that she has no teeth. Still, significantly, she’s drooling all over Sherlock’s five-hundred-quid designer trouser leg, so her efforts aren’t completely for naught.

"I don't want to dispose of it."

"Would you kindly explain to me why that is?"

"No."

Sherlock eyes the soldier testily.  

"You know there's an actual crime spree going on because I'm stuck here doing this stupid business,” he directs his hand pointedly at the child curled up against his foot, who seems to be fawning over the shininess of his shoes, “People are dying.”

"Oh well, you know how I stopped caring about people dying," John says, pushing off the trunk of the tree and resuming the trek. Sherlock looks down at his feet and sees that the child has started off down the walkway.

"What if I die, John. Do you care about that?” Sherlock demands, charging after the pair. Before the toddler can escape, Sherlock takes a few brisk steps and swiftly snags her by the arm. John overtakes them, absorbed with his phone.

“I think the deprivation is actually, physically killing me. I haven't solved a case in four months.  _Four months_. Me. _Sherlock_ _Holmes!_ Do you know how insane that is? It’s _unprecedented_ - _!”_ Sherlock explains to him hysterically, really quite vexed. He keeps his hands on the girl’s shoulders to keep her from escaping.

"Poor you," John replies tenderly.

" **John!** " Sherlock halts him in his tracks with an exclamation of broken, indignant desperation, appalled and incensed by the doctor’s behaviour.

"Human nature is not something I can explain to you,” John replies simply, turning around. He raises his eyebrows pointedly at his daughter, “Why don't you ask  _it_?"

"It can't talk, John!" Sherlock explains to him frantically, waving his hands expressively at the girl, who is blankly wondering what all the fuss is about.

John giggles then sighs, enjoying himself, which Sherlock clearly resents. "You became a downright bastard when she died, you know that?" he snips vindictively.

"I'm sorry you have to suffer through this. Really. I am," John apologizes, playfully satirical. John thinks Sherlock looks unnaturally beautiful when he’s angry and just about ready to strangle him.

"John, if I have to suffer another second of your false sincerity, I will hand your daughter over to my favourite serial killer for  **babysitting** ," Sherlock states severely, pointing down at the girl in what is meant to be a viable threat.

"Your favourite serial killer?"

"That would be  **me** ," Sherlock informs him staunchly.

"Your serial killer would be willing to take me out too then, I imagine? Kindly ask him for me," John replies warmly. Sherlock swallows nervously.

"John that's not funny."

"I wasn't being funny."

“Your therapist is useless. Absolutely useless,” Sherlock quips spitefully to himself.

“Haven’t actually been seeing her,” John divulges.

"What!"

"I haven’t had time,” John explains to his alarmed companion, and then sighs, “Look, we can't get rid of her alright. She's the only thing keeping me sane right now."

"You are not  _ **sane**_ ," Sherlock hisses through gritted teeth.

"Well, sane ish," John grins playfully at him over his shoulder. Sherlock isn’t thusly amused.

"John, she is making us both certifiably insane,” Sherlock states curtly, “I vote to have her removed and placed in an acceptable household with two parents, not one who works full-time and is on the verge of emotional collapse."

"I can't do that, Sherlock," John says, looking down at his daughter with a set of heavy, dark blue eyes.

"Why the hell not? It would be better for everyone. For her--"

"Because I need her, do you understand?” John exclaims exasperatedly, rubbing his forehead, then dropping his hand outstretched. Sherlock clearly doesn’t and waits impatiently for an explanation. “She's the all that I-- All that I have left--"

Sherlock cuts in, losing his patience. "What does that even mean?"

"I don't know! Stop asking!"

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Sherlock retorts, drawing out the syllables on the last words accusatively. John rubs his forehead. “Why are you giving me explanations that you yourself don’t fully understand? Would you just make sense, John!”

“It will never make sense to you, Sherlock, Love will never make sense to you!” John finally snaps, looking a little tormented. Sherlock tsks tetchily, eyes darting away, and sighs in annoyance. “I just, I can’t live without her, do you get that?"

"John you said that exact same thing about Mary--" Sherlock spurts out argumentatively.

"Well it was kinda true wasn't it?!" John points out exhaustively, the weight of the truth coming down harshly on Sherlock’s ears.

Sherlock deflates, looking into the pain-stricken eyes of his friend. He just wants John to be normal again, how long is that due to take?

The little girl grips John’s trouser in a demand for attention, looking very miserable and impatient under Sherlock’s containment.

“What is it?” John takes her in his hands while Sherlock bristles, busy vibrating with sulkiness and trying to contain his dissatisfaction.

She stammers some unintelligible derivative of “No no down down” and John looks at her puzzled.

"What d’ya mean?” He asks, attention veering back to his phone again. His daughter lets out a nuisanced whine. “Blast, there's no reception here," John mutters, raising his phone. In hopes of reorienting to get better service, he leans down to let his daughter go.

“No, John, don’t—” Sherlock starts, but the little vermin has already escaped. Sherlock inserts his forefingers between his eyebrows, and lets out a hot exhale between gritted teeth.


End file.
